3rd August, late night indoors

Why? "Why not?"

There was no answer from Bright, just more of his incomprehensible, damning English, and Paol could only watch helplessly.

Balling his hands into fists, he shifted his focus more fully to the riflemen; the greenjacket with the bandaged arm was not a threat, not physically anyway, but the other one, with the bayonet.... If -- When trouble came, it would be from him. Paol watched him carefully, trying to read his expression, gauging the distance between them, between him and the wall, and the chances of disarming him with only one hand.

*

"What's he saying?" Mittelstaedt demanded impatiently.

"Bright, what are you doing? You're a liar! It's me, tell them it's me! I'm sorry!" Charcot had never really intended to betray Bright to his death, except perhaps in that moment when the man had made light of Rosy's death. He was close to crying with vexation now, unable to see, unable to pass his companions in the door, unable to act at all. Even wounded, Paol was still stronger than him. "Paol please, I'm sorry! Make him stop!"

"I don't know what he's saying, but he's English!" Kaufmann once again wished there was an officer or a sergeant here to deal with this mess. After a momentary hesitation he said "Mittelstaedt, shut the door."

His fingers fumbled briefly with the buttons on his waistcoat until he made himself pause and let out a long breath. After that, removing the garment was accomplished quickly enough. His back needed to be bared in order for this foolish argument to be ended.

"If you got a set of these for yourself, maybe you can claim that it's you," Bright remarked and turned round to show his back to the Riflemen. This was his trump card.

Mittelstaedt looked sharply at Kaufmann. "Now can we deal with him?"

He stiffened, but held his ground. "No."

"Mittelstaedt!" For a moment, Kaufmann could barely believe it. Well, Mittelstaedt was a young idiot. Kaufmann had only one arm that was working at all, and he was still holding their only source of light. He jerked his head at the big Frenchman in the doorway. "Shut the door." And then he turned around and began walking down the stairs.


[Going here]

"What? No! Where the hell are you going? Kaufmann? Kaufmann!" Damnit all! Mittelstaedt glared at the French prisoners, but they were in almost total darkness now and even he was not so eager or foolish as to attempt anything without light. He started to back away.

*

Paol did not wait for the younger grasshopper to disappear; he pulled Bright back inside and swung the door shut.

Charcot backed himself into a corner, afraid. What was happening now? "Paol?"

Paol leaned heavily against the door. "What?"

Charcot drew in a long breath, at once relieved and frightened. "I'm sorry!" It came out in a whisper.

Showing remarkable restraint when he felt so close to lashing out, Bright moved slowly across the room, back to his bed. He held his silence only with an effort. This was a damned nasty mess.

He could hear that Bright was still in the room. So the soldiers had not taken him away? Charcot slid to the floor and crouched in the corner, cowering, waiting for an attack from his fellow prisoners. He had wanted to be killed, but now he was afraid to draw attention to himself with even the smallest sound. They would not kill him but beat him brutally, and he would deserve it, every kick and blow.

Despite its inevitability, he'd been terrified of failure, only to realize that it had already happened; the reaction had simply been delayed, like a hang fire, until now. But this wasn't the end of it. This was the fire and the smoke and the noise; the actual leaden impact was still to come.

In the corner he could see the small, shadowy form of Charcot, huddled like he'd been when Paol had found him in the barn. The memory should have kindled pity, but all he felt was a sudden rush of bitterness, and it was several long minutes before he could bring himself to shift and take the several steps across the room.

"Get up," he told him, forcing the words past the anger which clogged his throat and the sense of betrayal which he could neither explain nor ignore.

Oh hell, this was it. He would rather have been beaten by Bright whom he disliked. Maybe Paol was going to kill him after all, but he was afraid. He was afraid of the blind helpless terror that would accompany the attack. He pressed himself further into the corner and covered his head with his arms.

It felt like he was not the one in command of his own body. He was slipping his waistcoat back on and buttoning it up, but he would swear blind that he was actually watching somebody else do the same. Likewise, it was some other brainless fool who was carefully rolling himself onto the bed and dutifully pretending that he was alone in the room.

Maybe that was the key, though. If he could convince himself that he was only dreaming, maybe all of this would just go away.

Charcot was afraid. Of him. The realization was another twist of the knife, but at the moment, Paol hardly felt it. He reached down, grabbing one of Charcot's arms and, hauling him to his feet, dragged him across the room and thrust him down onto the bed. Then, without a word, he resumed his post by the door. He needed to think. God help him, there had to be something, some alternative, something he'd missed.

Although he had been bracing for it, Charcot cried out in terror as he was seized by the arm and dragged across the room. He felt himself pushed onto the bed and he curled into himself to be shielded from blows, but they did not come. Then he realized that Kerjean had actually moved away from him.

"I'm sorry!" he wailed. "I should be dead! Not Rosy." Not even Bright.

"No one should be dead!"

Charcot cringed at the vehemence of his response, but it was only to be expected. Paol didn't understand. Bright understood. But even though he had been unwilling to help, there had been no reason for him to ruin Charcot's attempt and throw his own life away. Turning his head toward the other bed, he asked in anguish "Why did you do it?"

Charcot was a fool. Not that this was a fact anyone could doubt after the night's events, but his remarks only lent strength to that fact.

"Why the bloody hell do you think?"

"Leave him be, Charcot," Paol said heavily. Hadn't it been enough of a God awful mess without going and dredging it up again?

Charcot did not understand. He did not understand at all. But he retreated into his huddled self and thought desperately of some other way to die. That was his only comfort now, his promised land, his one hope of escape. Bright and Kerjean would look after themselves.